


Sense of Direction

by LouLa



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Blow Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-28 22:33:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LouLa/pseuds/LouLa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sheriff Stilinski finds Isaac bloodied and broken after a run-in with the Alpha pack. Comfort isn't something Isaac expects to find for himself in the Stilinski home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sense of Direction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OnTheTurningAway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnTheTurningAway/gifts).



> Warnings for mentions of fighting/torture/abuse and very vague references to past child abuse. This could be viewed as underage, though no ages are mentioned. Liberties taken where Sheriff Stilinski's name is concerned.
> 
> Written and edited by myself from my iPhone, so please forgive any errors within. <3

Isaac is running blindly through the woods. The pain radiating through his body is eclipsing his other senses. He can't use the senses he's come to rely on; he can't see or hear or smell or taste much of anything, but he can feel. Bones after bone reforming, skin knitting back together, the gaping holes where entire chunks of flesh are missing closing themselves again.

The complete lack of direction is punishing. Stumbling along, he can only hope he's free of the Alpha pack, not being taunted further. The harsh sting of a fist and searing pain of a broken bone were familiar to him long before he became a werewolf, but the gouge of claws and tearing of teeth are new entirely. At this point, he'd rather die than suffer further.

He trips his way up an embankment to a smooth, level surface and his hearing comes screaming back. Literally. He hunches, hands covering his ears to block out the high pitch squeal. Tires on pavement.

He has just a moment to think, _great, getting hit by a car can't possibly make anything worse_ , and another to consider moving, before the bumper hits him at knee level. But it's just a knock. Not even enough to make him fall or rebreak any bones.

"Jesus Christ, what the hell are you... Isaac?"

Maybe it's the pain that finally causes him to pass out, or maybe it's his body shutting down at the first sign of safety, the familiar voice. What ever the reason, he's out cold before he even has to answer any questions.

Awareness leaks into him in fits and bursts. He knows he's moving, can tell he's in a car, and then everything is black again. He feels cold and heavy, in sleep and out of it. When he wakes fully, he knows it's only a short time later because he feels no better. He's surprised not to have woken up in the hospital or on the dirty floor of one of Derek's disgusting hideouts. He's in a bathroom, slumped against the wall, still able to feel his body fighting to mend itself.

The Sheriff has his back to Isaac. Isaac should leave. The Stilinski house is the last place he should be, and to his knowledge, Stiles' dad isn't even aware of the far from normal shit that Beacon Hills is home to — namely, Isaac, the almost dead werewolf on his bathroom floor.

He should go. But even the first shift of movement has John's back stiffening as he glances over his shoulder at Isaac.

"Don't even think about it," he mutters darkly.

It makes Isaac wonder why 'safe' was the first word to come to mind the moment he'd heard John's voice out in the woods. The voice should have meant trouble, if anything. Derek's is where Isaac should be.

"I'm not stupid, you know," he's saying, and Isaac isn't sure if he's talking to himself or to Isaac. He's listening either way. "My son thinks I am, but I'm not."

Oh. So he knows.

It's not all that surprising to him. Anyone who thought the Sheriff stupid only served to make an idiot of themselves. Stiles isn't stupid either but he has his idiot moments, and he really only sees what he wants to see in most situations. He should have realized John knew — knew at least _something_ , part of it.

"I'm going to move you now."

Isaac blinks his eyes open again as he's approached and idly wonders if he's been warned every time he was touched between here and the stretch of road he was found on. Probably. He doesn't remember. He bites down on a whimper as he's hefted up and braces himself against the wall when it's too much. Did John drag him into the car? Drive him home and drag him inside too, to the bathroom?

He glances down at himself and grimaces at the blood and dirt that covers his body, and the tattered, mostly-missing clothing that doesn't.

"Get you cleaned up, and then you can sleep. I'm going to..."

Isaac nods jerkily as John motions toward his body. He's going to take his clothes off, not that there's much of it there anyway. He lifts his foot to step out of the one pant leg that's still intact, and his shirt is easily torn the rest of the way off, leaving Isaac to focus on remaining upright.

John carefully wraps an arm around Isaac's waist and takes most of his weight as he helps him walk. Moving just to the other side of the room is difficult, but catching sight of himself in the mirror is the hardest part. His face is stained with dried blood and mud, but the clean tracks that reveal skin beneath, cutting lines through the mess are the proof that he's been crying without realizing it. He looks away, bowing his head, ashamed. If there was anything he wished being a werewolf could take away, it would be the ability to cry. Crying never led to anything good.

The edge of the tub creates an almost impossible obstacle, but the water within makes it all worth it.

Any other time, any other place, Isaac never would have closed his eyes and let what happened happen, but right then, it was all he could do. Simply feel the water rinsing him clean and the warmth soothing away some of the ache and the gentleness of John's hands washing off the rest of it.

Isaac sits on the lip of the tub as John checks him over for any wounds that aren't healing, dries him, and dresses him in soft, worn clothes. He opens his mouth to the acrid pills pressed to his lips with his eyes still closed and swallows them dry. The next moment, a glass of water is there and he obediently takes that too.

"Bed," John says, perhaps as a warning that he's going to be moving Isaac again, or as an instruction that Isaac is supposed to follow.

"Stiles?" he bites out, pain lashing through him at even that slight amount of effort.

He means to ask if that's which bed they're headed for, but he's answered with, "At Scott's."

And of course he is. Except 'at Scott's' probably really means at Derek's, doing something dangerous, or with Derek, doing something dangerous, or doing something dangerous, because of Derek. But Isaac guesses he knows that too.

Still, they bypass the room that Isaac knows is Stiles' and head further down the hall, moving slowly and painfully. The room they step into obviously belongs to the Sheriff, even without the overwhelming scent of his ownership. The bed smells of him, and it's oddly comforting to be surrounded by it as he's settled beneath the blanket. There shouldn't be anything comforting about being in the bed of a stranger, in the center of another's territory — even a human's — but again, that feeling of safe washes over him.

He cracks his eyes open when he hears a gun cock close by and sees John propping a shotgun against the nightstand on the other side of the bed. He huffs and curls up tighter beneath the blanket, feels the bed dip where John has sat down beside him to lean back against the headboard. A hand settles lightly against the top of Isaac's head, petting softly, and Isaac sniffs, turning his face into the bed further, hoping to stop the flow of the unbidden tears and catch more of the scent that calms the storm of his firing nerves. He falls asleep with that hand still in his hair.

—

The lapse of time doesn't register with Isaac. It could be hours or days later that he wakes. He knows it's far more than minutes because of the lack of pain in his body, though he still feels weak from the extensive healing.

A hand shakes his shoulder and he inhales sharply, claws immediately snicking out at the startle.

"Food," John says gruffly.

On another inhale, Isaac can smell that over the scent of the bed he sleeps in and the man standing behind him. Bacon and eggs; real food, not the processed shit Derek shoves in his face because they have nothing but an ancient microwave to cook with.

Isaac puts his claws away before he uses his hands to push himself up. He shudders as the cool air outside of his warm cocoon beneath the blankets touches his skin, and then drags the blankets up with him as he sits back against the headboard. If the plate of food has been brought to him, he's not moving.

John leaves him to eat, and Isaac is happy for that because while he's sure the man has seen some horrid things in his time, including how Isaac looked the night before, what Isaac is about to do to the plate of food shouldn't be witnessed by anyone.

It's only a couple minutes later that he's back again and the plate is empty, licked clean, and Isaac would feel ashamed but it was really good. Sheriff doesn't look even remotely surprised as he takes the plate away.

"How are you feeling?"

Isaac nods, unwilling to talk yet. The Alpha pack had half torn his throat out last night, and while the food went down easy enough, the pain still radiates there and talking sounds like torture.

"Going anywhere?"

Isaac pauses to think about it. He should run. He should have ran last night, or first thing upon waking, but that compelling urge to flee from unfamiliarity seems to have left him momentarily. He's comfortable, and aside from when he'd startled awake earlier, he feels safe and calm. He shakes his head.

"Good," John grunts. His voice sounds scratchy and Isaac can see the weariness lining his face. "Get some more sleep then. I hope you don't mind sharing because I didn't get much."

He knuckles his eyes and kicks out of his shoes, and Isaac blinks and watches him cross around to the other side of the bed, peeling back the covers. His heart rams up into his throat and beats hard enough to scare him when John climbs into bed beside him, but it's not the usual fear, not the kind that forces his claws out or kicks in his fight-or-flight instincts. It's nervousness and giddiness and a shocking punch of attraction as he watches the curve of John's back as he settles on his side away from Isaac.

"Sleep."

Isaac finds himself obeying in ways he hasn't done willingly in a long time, wilting down against the mattress. He goes lax with his eyes still glued to the obvious strength of the man in front of him, t-shirt clinging to the musculature and bone of a body that still works hard every day.

Again, he sleeps.

—

It's not a noise or shove that wakes him this time, but fingers carding through his hair. He can feel the heat of the body he's pressed against leaching through the layers of clothing. It still leaves him breathless, stomach going tight at just the feeling of _close, warm, right_.

It's a comfort thing, he knows that, and warning bells scream through him to stop at the first urge he gets to make it anything more than that. He doesn't think John realizes he's awake when he continues to push his fingers through Isaac's hair and bends his head forward to press his lips lightly to Isaac's forehead. It's only comfort and maybe years worth of guilt or even fatherly affection. Nothing more. Isaac tells himself that over and over but when the kiss lingers, he tilts his head back helplessly and finds the lips with his own.

If John is surprised, Isaac doesn't notice. There's an inhale, but after that it's slow, soft presses of lips and warmth building between them. It goes on for longer than Isaac expects it to and then John pulls himself away hurriedly. If not for Isaac's quick reflexes, he thinks John would have lurched himself to the floor, but Isaac catches hold of him by the shirt before he can get too far away. Isaac can overpower him easily, but he doesn't want to, and he's glad to loosen his hold on John's shirt when he pushes forward again and catches Isaac's mouth in another kiss.

It's more forceful, more heated, and Isaac leans into it hard enough to hurt, needing more, more, more. But John gentles him down, slowing the kiss as he presses Isaac onto his back, hovering over the top of him. Isaac clings, wanting him closer, needing to feel his weight, but John is still resisting, and Isaac restrains himself.

"We can't," he says, mouth separated from Isaac's by mere inches, and Isaac shakes his head, elbowing up for another kiss.

He's uses only enough strength to bring John down fully on top of him, and then he simply rests his hands against his back. The soft material of the pajama pants John dressed him in do nothing to hide his erection, and John's jeans don't mask his arousal either. Isaac raises his hips off the bed and grinds up against John's body, making his intentions known. He wants this.

That feeling of _safe_ from the night before lingers, has grown stronger, and Isaac wants to cloak himself in it. That building heat between them, and the glow of warmth radiating from his belly, makes him sure that they _can_ , they can do this. Isaac has never been more sure in his life, has never wanted anyone this much.

He hitches a thigh higher, drags it over the line of John's cock beneath his jeans, and catches the resulting needy moan in his mouth. John rolls and takes Isaac with him, pulling him on top, and Isaac keeps his mouth against John's, stealing one last hot, hard kiss before he sits up. Straddling John, Isaac pulls his shirt over his head and grinds his ass down as he reaches to do the same with John's shirt. He tosses the clothing to the side and fingers the waistband of his pants, hesitating only slightly before he pushes the material low enough to free his straining cock, hissing when it slaps against his belly with the buck of John's hips beneath him.

John's hands start at his waist, ghosting over smooth, pale skin, down to his hips, where they pause to grip, before he finally lowers them to Isaac's cock, the fingers of one hand dragging over the sensitive skin while the other reaches lower to cup his balls. Isaac falls forward, pinning John's hands in place as he crushes their lips together. Isaac whimpers as his lip is bitten lightly at the same time that his balls are squeezed, and kisses harder before he kicks himself away.

John watches him, eyes hooded and mouth loose and wet, as Isaac crouches over him, slowly knee-walking backwards. He lowers himself again, unbuttoning John's jeans and kissing over the flat of his stomach, dragging his tongue along the raised skin of a scar, and nuzzling at the hair below his belly button. John grips at the wrist that holds Isaac's weight and Isaac twists his hand around to squeeze him back before he pulls away, yanking John's pants down. Isaac's mouth floods at the sight of his cock, when the smell of arousal hits him even harder. He doesn't get John's pants pulled down any further than his thighs before he leans forward.

He inhales the rich scent that pours off John's skin, heat and musk and man. He huffs out the breath against the juncture of John's thigh and turns his face closer, nosing toward his balls and lapping, dragging his tongue along the soft skin. He keeps licking, pressing his tongue and sucking kisses upwards, feeling John's cock jerk beneath his mouth. They both groan as Isaac's lips catch the tip between them. He takes John's cock deep into his mouth, hallowing his cheeks as he sucks. The taste of him fills Isaac's mouth, while the size of him stretches Isaac to the brim.

He cups John's balls in his hand and swallows him down, gagging on the flare of the thick tip catching in his throat. John's hand twists into his hair, not pushing or pulling, just a firm hold that keeps Isaac grounded as he breathes deeply through his nose before going down again. It's wet and messy and noisy, John groaning and clutching at Isaac each time he sucks him as deep as he can go.

They make eye contact every time Isaac comes up for air. He watches until John tilts his head back and moans, and then lets his eyes fall closed, only to open them again to look up and find John's riveted stare. Occasionally he reaches down to brush away a tear from Isaac's cheek with his thumb, the full stretch almost too much sometimes, making Isaac's eyes water.

He keeps himself braced on his knees and an elbow as he reaches between his legs to squeeze at his own throbbing erection. The tightness he can feel in John's balls and the way his moans have gone hoarse have to mean he's close, and Isaac's dick hurts at the thought of his mouth being flooded with the taste of come. He whimpers around the cock between his lips as John's hand tightens in his hair, and he keeps his hand moving on himself, just as close now.

John makes a wordless, deep sound in his throat, head leaned back against the pillows as he comes. The hand that isn't in Isaac's hair is clutching the bedspread, tearing at it while his hips twitch and arch, pushing his load further down Isaac's throat. Isaac's orgasm takes him just as soon as the taste of come hits his tongue. He chokes on cock and come, gulping and swallowing, messy with his own gratification as he spurts into the hold of his hand.

He doesn't think before he brings that hand up to smear his release against the still twitching length of John's cock, marking him. With his mouth pressed to John's stomach, he fights to catch his breath, the hand in his hair helping to gentle him down.

That hand tightens, pulling for the first time. "Come here," John requests, and Isaac goes willingly.

Their bodies rubbing together as he crawls upward pulls another shudder from him. John drags their mouths against each other, licking at the corner of Isaac's lips before he pushes his tongue inside. Isaac clutches and humps at him, the coil of heat already building again at the thought of John tasting himself in Isaac's mouth.

John glides his hands down Isaac's sweaty back to grab at his ass. Isaac clenches at the feel of cool air against his hot hole, rutting down again.

"Twenty minutes," John requests.

"Ten," Isaac counters, voice thin and scratchy.

He makes a noise of protest when Isaac starts grinding against him with purpose but he simply keeps his hold of Isaac's ass, doesn't move to stop him. Neither of them are the type to back down from a challenge.


End file.
